Two Halves Make a Whole
by darthsydious
Summary: John and Molly keep each other sane while Sherlock is brilliant.
1. Chapter 1

_I've been meaning to get this out for a while, sort of a John/Molly friends to more than friends fic. It covers their first meeting all the way through the Reichenbach Fall and a little afterwards. Enjoy dearies! _

* * *

When John Watson and Molly Hooper first met, sparks didn't fly. There were no rainbows or shooting stars or flutters in their stomachs when they first clapped eyes. It was more of a "Good God, you know Sherlock Holmes and you still hang around him?" exchange.

John did give Molly her credit; she seemed to be the only one devoted to really helping Sherlock. She knew her profession and enjoyed it. If he could levy some of the Consulting Detective's negative comments off the harmless pathologist, he might even feel better about himself. After all, she hadn't done anything to deserve Sherlock's comments (one usually didn't have to though; it wasn't as if he had a filter). In Molly, John found a kindred spirit. It seemed natural that the two people Sherlock worked with would be good friends. Together they sort of balanced him out, like two halves of a whole person, and the same was true of each other. Having Molly in his life, and John in her's, and Sherlock in between them, they all sort of found their place, a little piece of themselves they didn't quite know was missing.

Molly found herself smiling when the good doctor joined Sherlock in the lab. He was kind and respectful, asked her about her profession without the look of "You handle dead people, gross." Besides, who could they complain about Sherlock to without having to then explain why they still spent time with the 'High-Functioning Sociopath' if he made them pull their hair out? Their friendship started slowly, nothing more than an exchange of smiles when he and Sherlock entered the lab and a short discussion on current cases. Molly liked to know what Sherlock was working on, and John was always happy to fill her in on the details, sometimes her fresh perspective helped them out. One day, when she handed Sherlock his usual coffee, John suddenly found himself being given one as well.

"I didn't ask for this," he said, trying to hand it back.

"I know, but I was running upstairs anyway for Sherlock, I figured you'd want one too." She replied with a shrug. She'd got it wrong the first time, she'd put in sugar. Next time she went upstairs he went with her, (partly because Sherlock wanted to be in his mind-palace) and she discovered how he took his coffee. "Oh I put sugar in last time, didn't I?" she asked. He nodded,

"It's ok, it was still nice of you to think of me," he said, then watched as she heaped three teaspoons into her own cup. "Did you give me yours?" he asked. She turned a little pink.  
"Well, I was bringing Sherlock a coffee and I usually get mine at the same time, and I forgot you come here now with him so…" she shrugged then.

"Thanks for the thought," he said. "It's not often one is remembered, standing in Sherlock's shadow."

"You hold your own," she said, grabbing a packet of crisps and pulling a chair out. "I heard you tracked down that thief the other day." John was a big enough person to admit his chest swelled a little bit at that. It's quite nice when other people notice things you've accomplished. "I'm rubbish at noticing things," she said, munching on a chip, she held out the opened bag and he reached in, helping himself to a few. "I'd probably be too busy singing along with the song, rather than listening for the background noise!"

"It was a good song," he admitted.

"Classic," she agreed. "But then who doesn't know all the lyrics to 'Piano Man'?" John paused.

"You like Billy Joel?"

"Oh yes!" she nodded.

"Yeah? Who else?"

"Paul Simon, Pat Benatar, Diana Ross, Whitney Houston, and, I do admit, I'm a fan of Barry Manilow-"

"Noooo!" John rolled his eyes, "Ugh, stop,"

"Nope, sorry, my dad loved him, he and my mum both. I was raised by Manilow fans; I must admit it's in my blood,"

"Alright, I suppose I can allow that, you did say Diana Ross," he said with a laugh.

"What about you?"

"James Brown, Richard Hawley, The Beatles, Laura Nyro," he ticked off.

"Oo, 70's soul!" she laughed.

"Well, can't go wrong with James Brown," he said with a shrug. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who's said they dislike him," she nodded agreeing.

Taste in music was similar, (except for that whole Manilow thing…) and so from there on out, coffee breaks became music discussions, hashing over their favorite bands and musicians, eventually branching on to movies and books, she was surprised to find he enjoyed reading.

"Why?" he asked when she said so.

"You don't seem the type," she replied with a shrug. "I mean, you do hang around Sherlock Holmes, a man who invented his own career," and he laughed. "One doesn't really sit around with Sherlock, unless he does."

When he knew she'd be working late he'd drop off take-away for her so she wouldn't have to eat the food in the cafeteria.

"Have I told you lately that I love you?" she teased when he handed her a to-go box from the Indian place down the street.

"Stop, no, I will leave," he replied, opening his own box.

"I couldn't resist, but thank you though, you don't have to do this every Wednesday." Wednesdays she was on call, and nothing ever happened in the middle of the week. Not usually anyway. It was always quiet and Molly usually spent the time doing paperwork. John's company was welcome, as was the food he brought. Sometimes Sherlock would join them, making use of the lab while they ate. Sometimes a case would come up while they were talking and Sherlock would take John by the scarf, yanking him out of the lab, leaving Molly to her own devices again. When that happened, John would shout down the hallway for her to please take his food home for him.

A week after they solved a particularly boring case (it didn't even rate a six on John's scale, if he had one), John invited her over to watch a movie.  
"Are you sure?" she asked, heart skipping a beat though at the thought of seeing Sherlock's flat, and for the fact that she often didn't go anywhere. Fridays were spent doing laundry and eating ice cream out of the tub.  
"Of course," he said. "Bring your slippers, the floor gets cold."

"Who's cooking?" she asked, referring to the two of them.

"Sherlock's commandeered the kitchen for a while so, we'll get take-out," he said so she agreed.

Sherlock had not been informed of their company until the doorbell rang.

"Can you get that?" John called; he was folding up a throw blanket and setting up the dvd player. Surprise was evident when he opened the door to see Molly Hooper standing on their stoop, arms full of take-away and a case of beer.

"Evening Sherlock," she said, breezing past him.

"Oh good, you went to Golden Palace," John said.

"I didn't know what you liked so I just grabbed a couple orders for the buffet, loaded up the containers with a little of everything,"

"Oh brilliant, I'm starved," he replied. Sherlock came to stand between them, looking at the six opened containers, nose wrinkling. Another foam carton was handed to him before he could complain there was nothing there that he liked; it contained an order of egg rolls and beef with broccoli, his favorite.

"I know you don't like buffet so I made sure to order something off the menu for you," Molly said and he took it. John pinched his arm as he walked by.

"Ow!" Sherlock snapped. "What was that for?"

"You could thank her," John said.

"Why?" Sherlock replied and climbed onto his chair, crossed his legs and stuffed half an egg-roll into his mouth.

"Save it John, he hasn't thanked me since-" she paused, trying to think. "I don't know, but I stopped trying,"

"Well _I'll _thank you at any rate, this is perfect," John said, grabbing a beer, a set of chopsticks and one of the containers. Molly followed, shuffling her feet into her slippers.

"Are you going to watch with us?" she asked Sherlock as she sat down.

"'Us'?" Sherlock asked. John and Molly looked up from their places on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table. Molly wore slippers shaped like rabbits with pointy teeth.

"We're watching Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail," she said.

"With nasty big, pointy teeth," John added.

"What?" this only made John and Molly laugh.  
"Great slippers by the way, where'd you get them?" Now they were ignoring him.

"Online," she said. "I'll get you a pair if you want,"

"Hah! No, as charming as they'd be, I think they look better on you."

Sherlock was being ignored, _and_ laughed at and he did not appreciate it. However if he wanted Molly and John to pay attention to him so he could remind Molly he needed Mr. Henderson's brain, he would have to change the subject.

"Why are you here?" he asked again.

"We're watching a movie," John said as the opening credits rolled.

"Come watch with us, it's a classic,"

"He won't get it," John said, loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

"Why?"

"Because it's Monty Python, it's pointless," Sherlock huffed and sat down, certain she was only trying to drive him from the room. Two hours later, he glared at the screen, confused.

"Everyone is mad here," he said. "While the representation of 12th century England is probably _meant_ to look cheap, due in part to low-budget, the script jumps all over the place, there is no definite plot, except that Arthur runs around with his manservant, who are both suffered under the delusion that he is riding a horse! The most logical argument thus-far has been how they got the coconuts to England in the first place!"

"African or European Swallow?" Molly asked and she and John burst into fits of giggles. The pack of beer was gone, and while they weren't drunk they were certainly more relaxed. The clock on the mantle struck twelve, and Molly realized she'd stayed much later than she meant to.

"I've got an early start tomorrow!" she said and got to her feet, wobbling.

"I'll call a cab for you," John said, helping her gather her things and seeing her downstairs.

Sherlock was left alone to ponder the evening's events. Molly Hooper came over to 221b. That never happened before. She and John shared a meal, and watched a movie together. They drank alcohol together, and spent most of the night talking over the other, at one point engaging in a sofa-pillow fight. Sherlock also noted that her stammer which usually plagued her whenever he was in the room was not apparent. She was relaxed as soon as she stepped through the door. She and John sat close together; they ate out of each other's food containers. There was no hand holding or crossing legs together, but arms brushed and there were teasing pinches and ear flicking and at one point Molly tried to lick John's face (apparently when Sherlock had gone to the bathroom John had instigated a tickle fight and the only way to end a tickle-fight with the ex-army doctor was attempted face licking). So she was comfortable with John. John didn't seem to mind her either. Their state of comfort with each other suggested intimacy.

Ah. That was it then.

John plodded back upstairs, whistling to himself. He locked the door behind him.  
"Molly head out alright?"

"Yep, she said goodnight and said thanks for letting her come over without too much fuss,"

"Oh no, no problem," Sherlock said, glancing up from his microscope. "When will you be seeing her again?"

"I don't know," John said with a shrug. "She's got a busy schedule, and frankly I never know what is happening when we're in between cases- why?"

"Because once you two start dating there's certain expectations, hopes, needs that every woman has. If the evening goes awry, then I am left with a sobbing, useless pathologist who can't get me the parts I need for experiments and cases because she's too emotionally overwrought by you screwing up her sex-life."

"Sherlock-" John opened his mouth, then sighed angrily. "Goodnight." and he went to his room.

"You will remember to pleasure her properly?" Sherlock called. A pair of shoes came flying down the stairs, narrowly missing his head. "Good," he replied before throwing himself back on the sofa, sinking into his mind-palace.

Months went by and John and Molly laughingly called themselves Sherlock's minders. Mycroft had on several occasions met with them, separately and together, discussing how their friendship was benefiting his brother. They giggled over the fact that Mycroft was, in his own Holmes way, thanking them. As good friends do, they supported each other, shared dreams and silly thoughts, went to the cinema and ate too much and then complained about it the next day. They helped each other through break-ups, rough dates, bad days and hang-overs. When Molly got sick, John brought her soup and a couple movies, and even rubbed some Vapo-rub on her chest. When John's sister relapsed and started drinking again, Molly went with John to to help find her and convince her to go to rehab. On the way home John put his head in her lap, too tired to cry any more or even think. Molly carded her fingers through his short hair, humming quietly to herself. Words were important, but sometimes silence was just as nice between them. When John worried Sherlock would relapse, Molly was the first person he would call. If she had a date, John helped her pick out a dress. He warded off the undesirables at the pub, and she returned the favor, (usually without knowing she did). John did think Molly was quite a looker, even if she didn't believe it. Molly Hooper suffered from low self-esteem. John was honestly surprised at how little she believed herself capable of.

"I don't understand," John said, one night to Sherlock. "She's top of her field, she's funny and clever- shut up Sherlock."

"I didn't say anything!" and he was actually indignant. Molly Hooper was silly, watched insipid shows and knew far too many pop songs for a woman her age, but Sherlock knew it was a fact she was the best pathologist in London and she had a keen mind. John looked up, somewhat startled by Sherlock's reaction. "Anyway, what's the matter, her cat die or something? Is she menstruating?"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" John shook his head with a sigh.

"I just wish she could see how capable she is, she's not anything people say she is,"

"Of course she isn't," Sherlock said. "We know that, so what does it matter to anyone else?"

"Because people's opinions matter to her, especially ours."

She'd been especially quiet since Moriarty had used her to get to Sherlock. John did not bring the subject up to her, letting her come to them in her own time. That didn't stop John from worrying.

"Isn't there something we can do? Increase security or something?"

"Why?"

"He placed cameras in her flat Sherlock, does that mean nothing to you?" John asked incredulously. "I don't know if you noticed, she hasn't quite been herself lately."

"Hm."

"I'm serious!" John said, hands in his pockets, he was looking out the window. "She's quieter, she doesn't…she shuts me out, sometimes." Sherlock actually frowned at this. "It's like before we were friends," John said. "Like…" he sighed a little. "Maybe I'll give her a call. Maybe she'll want to go to the pub tonight." He grabbed his jacket, hurrying out the door. In a moment, Sherlock's phone beeped.

"_Is the little mouse a plaything of yours? Have I broken her?"_

Sherlock turned back to the microscope. In a moment the mobile's screen lit up again,

"_So you don't mind if I play with her?" _

Again he turned away, this time shaking hands fiddled with beakers, attempting proper measurements.

"_I'm much too busy keeping you distracted to amuse myself with her. Perhaps I'll pay her a visit after you're gone."_

**One Year Later**

"_What do you need?"_

"_Molly, if I wasn't everything you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"_

"_What do you need?" _

"_You." _

That conversation seemed to haunt Molly whenever she climbed into bed. Sherlock's voice was quiet and desperate. It had been just about a year since she'd helped Sherlock during the Reichenbach case. While Moriarty's face still followed her in her nightmares, she did take comfort in the fact that he was gone forever. Sherlock was bringing down his spy ring one by one. Every now and again she would get a coded text from Mycroft.

"_Fetch a carton of milk"_ meant Sherlock was in London and would be hiding in her flat. She found out rather quickly it was also a plain and simple message to make sure she had some milk in her fridge, (Sherlock took a lot in his tea). The in-between parts were hardest, when she would go to bed, Sherlock asleep on her couch. In the morning he would be gone; no sign of him ever having been there. She watched John struggle between trying to move on and flat-out depression, some days he'd sit in the flat, unmoving. These were the days Molly would come and clean and cook for him, he'd mutter for her to please take out any alcohol in the flat. He wasn't alcoholic, but his sister was, and he worried he carried the same trait. Twelve months Molly watched and cared for him. Slowly, slowly, he began to come back to himself, altered somewhat, as death has that affect on people. More than anything she fretted that he would never forgive her. How could he, all that time her knowing his closest friends were conspiring together, lying to his face. Molly was certain she would lose him, and the thought made her sick.

As usual, she tossed and turned, sighing heavily. Toby, her cat, had quite enough and jumped off the bed, tail lashing back and forth. She rolled onto her side, finding she couldn't keep her eyes shut. Guilt has a way of keeping sleep from a person. Toby was purring noisily, arching against something in the doorway. Molly squinted, then with a shriek sat bolt up, fingers fumbling for the cricket bat she kept near her bed.

"Molly!"

The light flicked on, revealing Sherlock with his hands raised to defend himself (she had on more than one occasion cracked him in the head when he broke into her flat).

"Sherlock?" she dropped the bat, sitting down again. "Thank goodness I thought-" she ran a hand through her tangled hair. "What are you doing here? I never heard my phone, did Mycroft text me?" she reached for her mobile to check the messages.

"It's done," Sherlock said. For a moment the room was still, save Toby purring and winding his way between Sherlock's legs.

"What- when- how?"

"Moran was the last link; he was taken care of tonight. Mycroft is cleaning up and sorting the affairs."

"Oh," she nodded. "When…are you coming back officially?"

"Tomorrow, sooner the better." He poked at the things on her dresser. "Will you come with me?" Her stomach did flip-flops and she didn't know what would be worse, seeing John's reaction or waiting for him to come find her. Probably the latter. She'd hid enough from him. Molly Hooper was many things, most often a coward, but she couldn't hide any longer from John.

"Yes I will," she said. Sherlock nodded, wandering back out to the living room, so Molly followed. He'd lost weight during the past eight months. It was a chore to feed him when he did come. Now that everything was solved, he didn't seem to know what to do with himself.

He felt her small hands over his coat collar, helping him out of it, not unlike the time he was drugged and John had to help him. Only in this case Molly was considerably gentler.  
"Sit down," she said. "Put your feet up and I'll make you something to eat."

"It's late."

"You haven't eaten in probably a week," she replied. He sat on the couch, hands between his knees, staring at the wall. In a little while he smelled food, and he realized Molly was holding out a plate of eggs and hashed potatoes. "They're dippy eggs, just the way you like," she said. Sherlock took the plate, fighting back a smile. She'd cut the toast into soldiers. He tucked into his food, mumbling a 'thank you'. When he was finished she directed him to the bathroom to shower and shave. When he appeared, feeling considerably better, she guided him back to the couch where she'd made up his bed.

"Headache." He grumbled, falling face-first onto the couch.

"Honestly," she laughed. "You're worse than John sometimes, you know that?" he turned over onto his back and she sat on the arm of the couch, combing her fingers through his hair. Sherlock recalled Molly doing so for John more often than anything else. Usually after a case. Molly would have dinner waiting for them, and after John would complain of a headache. Molly would rest John's head in her lap and run her fingers through his short hair, humming quietly while she read. Sherlock never understood why anyone would want such human contact until she'd done it to him after his fall. It was a rare occurrence that he ever asked her to, but right now she seemed to understand what he needed.

"What if he doesn't forgive me?" Sherlock asked quietly. She paused only a moment, but he knew exactly what she'd been thinking.

"John will always forgive you," she said, quite sure of her words. "He may hit you, he'll most definitely hit you, and probably not care if he hits your jaw or your nose this time," she smiled a little at this. "But in the end, he will forgive you."  
"And you," Sherlock said. Molly was quiet, so he opened his eyes, looking up at her with a frown. "Molly?"

"Goodnight Sherlock," she got to her feet, shutting off the living room light.


	2. Chapter 2

Sure enough, John hit him. Molly thought he would throw a few good punches, but when he didn't stop, she felt obliged to hold him back.

"John," her voice was surprisingly calm. Realizing, he did step back, breathing hard. Shaking her off him, he glared at Sherlock.

"A _year_, Sherlock, an entire year we all thought- I thought…" he covered his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And you think that after all this time I'm going to just forgive you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a frown. "You know why I had to do it. If it had not been for Molly I never-"

"Molly?" John suddenly remembered she was there. He looked at her, then at Sherlock, slowly piecing together what had happened. "You _knew_?" the hurt in John's tone and eyes was clear. Molly felt as if her fears were all coming true. She should have known not to let Sherlock bring her here. She shouldn't have come. Already she felt herself backing up, John following a step behind. "Molly Hooper, answer me." His voice was dark and terrible. She backed into the door, and he'd stopped just before her. She didn't know where to look.

"Yes," she murmured. "John if there was a way I could have-

"You knew, _all this time_-" he couldn't speak for a moment. "The night- _that_ night, _the whole time-_"

"Don't yell at her," Sherlock interrupted, dabbing a handkerchief to his cut cheek. "She was only doing what I asked of her." "That's a real shocker there," he snapped, darting a glance from one to the other.

"That's not fair-" her eyes flashed angrily."If there had been a way, any way to keep you safe and have you know, I would have told you-"

"You can't really be angry at Molly," Sherlock was talking over her, his surprise that John was furious with his pathologist quite evident. "She did it to help-"

"Shut up the both of you!" John barked, he shook Molly's hand off him, pushing her away, harder than he meant to. She fell back against the corner of the table, wincing as her hip made contact with the wood. Sherlock blinked, shocked. Molly's face was red with shame, sniffling.

"John," she began softly.

"Don't speak to me, Molly, go- get out- away- don't call me, _either_ of you," he grabbed his jacket, barely containing himself before he yanked the door open and hurried downstairs.

"Molly," Sherlock began, but stopped. He watched her slide down the wall, put her head against her knees and sob. That was certainly enough of that. Sherlock snatched up his coat, hurrying after John, calling after her to stay in 221b.

When John stopped walking he realized he was halfway into Regents Park.

"Bollocks," he grumbled.

"John!" he turned to see Sherlock jogging after him.

"Sherlock, go away,"

"I believe we're in a public place, you have no legal claim on any one spot. If anything you're probably trespassing on Mycroft's territory,"

"Oh my God, what- _what_ Sherlock? What do you want to say to me? For God's sake, just say it and then let me be!" when he didn't say anything else, Sherlock put his hands in his pockets.

"You're mad at me,"

"No sh-"

"You're mad at _me_, not Molly," he interrupted before John could finish.

"No, I'm pretty sure I'm mad at the both of you," he frowned.

"Why be angry with Molly?"

"She lied to me!" John said. "All this time, a whole year, watching me mourn, letting me think-" Sherlock rolled his eyes with a groan.

"Ugh. Grow up, John."

"_What?" _

"You're behaving like a petulant child who can't have his way," John tried to interrupt him, wanting to hurl back accusations of his own (Sherlock calling him a child was certainly the pot calling the kettle black) but Sherlock went on speaking. "You've a right to be angry with me; I'll give you that, but think of the repercussions if Molly had told you right away. You'd have trailed after me, leaving Molly all by herself in London, unprotected and alone for Moran to stalk." When John didn't speak, he continued. "You're angry with her because she hurt your pride?" John refused to look at him then, he gritted his teeth, glaring at the sidewalk. "Your pride is hurt, because you were vulnerable in front of Molly, you're angry because you let yourself go so far from being her protector and friend that you're embarrassed. _Grow_ _up_, John. If she hadn't helped me, you'd all be dead."

"You don't know what it was like," John said finally. "When you were gone, when I thought you were gone," he shook his head. "You couldn't possibly know what it was like."

"No," Sherlock said. "You're right I don't. Molly wouldn't tell me, no matter how I tried to convince her. She felt the less I knew about everyone, the better." John looked at him then, surprised.

"She didn't…didn't say-" John couldn't finish. He was positive Molly would have told Sherlock everything. Every detail. The night Sherlock had jumped, John returned to 221b and gotten stone drunk. He'd collapsed in a heap, puked, drank more and finally went to sleep. He was vaguely aware of Molly coming in, gently scolding him. He'd batted at her trying to help him to his feet. He'd thrown up on her at one point, and was fairly certain he'd pissed himself. Waking up in your own sick is bad enough. Waking up half-naked in a bathtub, reeking of sick and urine, with one of your closest friends giving you a sponge bath is arguably worse. Coherent thought fled him for the rest of that day, Molly had spent it cleaning the flat up (he'd gone on a bit of a drunken rampage and broken quite a few things) and taking care of him. John was ashamed of his behavior. He was angry with himself, angry that Molly had seen him like that. The knowledge that Sherlock might have known he'd let himself slip so far made John's insides twist. Sherlock had his own vices; he would not want to see those traits in his friends.

"What happened that night is none of my concern, I don't know anything other than you were not yourself," Sherlock said, breaking John from his thoughts.

"You didn't make her tell you?"

"I did try," Sherlock said with a shrug. "She can be remarkably stubborn, despite her size."

"Your point?" Watson asked, finding he still wasn't quite ready to forgive Sherlock.

"I asked for her help because she was the one Moriarty underestimated. He thought she was inconsequential to me, therefore she was essential to my plan."

"You could have trusted _me_," John said.

"I _know_ I can, which is why you were not a part of this. You would have followed after me. I needed you here in London." Watson was beginning to feel like he was being lectured on how to feel. That he could not tolerate from Sherlock, so he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Consider this then," Sherlock said after a moment, John staring off into the distance in stony silence. "If your roles were reversed, if Molly was forced to think I was dead, what would you do?" John scuffed the toe of his shoe on the path.  
"Fine." A nod. Finally he looked up. "I do understand," he acknowledged. "Is that it?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Except that if you ever treat Molly that way again, I'll see to it your limp is real." With that, he turned on his heel, heading back to Baker Street.

**Hours Later**

Molly lay on the couch, facing away from the room; Sherlock had actually covered her with a blanket before retreating to the corner with his violin. He saw a familiar figure coming across the street, a bag in their hands. In a few moments, the door opened and then shut. John caught Sherlock's eye, who only nodded to the couch, signaling him she was asleep. He managed to get his coat off before setting the bag of food down. His keys fell out of his pocket rattling across the kitchen floor. Molly stirred and both Sherlock and John groaned inwardly.

"Is John home?" she asked sleepily, sitting up. Sherlock nodded, turning away again.

"I brought food," John said. He looked at the bag, then at his feet. Finally he opened the bag, busying himself with the contents. "They made fresh egg rolls," he said. Molly shuffled over to the table, arms around herself. "Are you hungry?" she didn't answer. He stopped what he was doing, finally turning to her.

"Molly-" She fell against him, hugging him outright. His arms found their way around her, petting her head. With a heaving shudder, she began to cry, fingers clinging to the back of his jumper.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," her voice was muffled against him. "If you had any idea how much I wish I could have told you,"

"I know, I'm…I overreacted," he said.

"She thought you wouldn't forgive her," Sherlock said from his chair, idly plucking at the strings on his violin. John turned back to her,

"It's just, you mean so much to me, you both do and I- I don't know if I ever lost the two of you. I thought after Sherlock came back you'd be so angry with me because I told so many lies, and Sherlock would have you again, he wouldn't need me, and he'll always choose you before me because you're best friends and flat mates and- and- oh I don't know, I panicked, but I couldn't say anything to either of you."

"I told you before, you _do_ count Molly Hooper. Need I remind you I do not speak unless I mean what I say?" she shrugged helplessly. "You do count," he said again. His tone was what surprised John. Sherlock hated to repeat himself, if he did, he was sarcastic and biting. Now though, he was repeating something to Molly, but his voice was low and warm, and John wondered what exactly Molly had seen or done to earn such a kindness from Sherlock.

"You did it because you had to," John said at last.

"I _hated_ lying to you," she murmured, still looking at the floor, ashamed.

"I know you did," he said. Seeing her now, finally free of her secret she'd kept tucked away for so long, she seemed much more herself again.

"Molly, get plates down," Sherlock said from his chair. "Napkins are in the drawer,"

"I know, Sherlock," Molly said. Food was set out and Sherlock animatedly launched into how exactly he had survived. John, having gotten over being angry then wanted to know how Molly had drugged Sherlock, dragged him half-conscious from the morgue and stitched him up and taped his ribs in her flat. John thought about the past year, this time trying to put himself in Molly's place. Having to keep such a great secret inside and all the while watching your closest friends mourning, and then going home to find Sherlock alive on your couch. If she had not helped Sherlock keep his secret, Moran would still be alive, and one of them might not be. John shuddered at the thought of Molly being followed by Moriarty's hit-man. That was how Sherlock had finally taken out the last of Moriarty's web. He discovered Moran had been stalking Molly for three months, convinced she would lead him to Sherlock. He'd kept tabs on the pathologist in nearly everything and when Sherlock broke into his hideout, he found pictures of Molly in her everyday life, at work, in a coffee place with Greg and John, in her home, and a few of her asleep in bed. That had been enough for Sherlock, and he made certain to end it that night. John understood the night Moran was killed and Mycroft's men had swooped in, he went straight to Molly's. That alone spoke volumes of how their friendship had changed. Sherlock was cut off from everyone he cared about, everyone but Molly and Mycroft, and he simply did not feel for his brother as he did about John and Molly. John was glad that they had grown closer, Sherlock was almost in the habit of thanking Molly now, though John suspected each time Sherlock remembered to say it, part of it was him thanking her again for saving him. It was a debt that could not be repaid, it took courage and no small degree of cleverness, and it had permanently won her respect from both of the Holmes.

After Sherlock's return, it seemed now the trio was inseparable and could often be found if not in the morgue or lab, then either at her flat or 221b. Sherlock criticized their choice of movies and they scolded Sherlock for putting organs in the new French Press Mrs. Hudson had bought him. Life went on quite pleasantly for a while and the three of them found a happy sort of ever-changing routine (because when you are best friends with Sherlock Holmes, any hope for an absolute schedule is a lost cause). It meant weekends were spent between 221b and Molly's flat, depending on if they wanted home-cooked or take-away. Sometimes John would wake up to Molly making breakfast at 221b on her day off, painting her nails and laughing as Sherlock argued with a television program (he had lately discovered Dora the Explorer and became so enraged at the television John had to wrestle his handgun away from him)

"We all know where the HELL we have to go, we have to cross the stupid candy cane bridge!"

"What is _wrong_ with you?" John asked, emptying the gun of ammunition and handing it back to him. "Go read a book."

"Molly is here," Sherlock said, confused at John's statement. "We always watch telly on Friday night, pending a case."

Sunday nights John took to walking Molly home. It wasn't very far, and it was a healthy step for their friendship. He took the time to reacquaint himself with why she meant so much to him.

"Why are you my friend, John?" she asked one Sunday evening. He looked at her, hands in his pockets. "I mean, I know why I'm your friend,"

"Why?" he asked, and she smiled a little.

"Because you're the first person who smiled at me when you came in the door, and not because you needed my help with anything." She paused. "You made me feel like…like I was someone worth smiling at. You make me laugh, you make me care." She was thoughtful then. "For a long time I held onto the hope that Sherlock would be the person who could do that, make me confidant and believe that I could really…be somebody worth caring about…and he did, in a way, but you made me do it for me, not for anyone else." John smiled at her then. "So go on," she said finally.

"Because nobody else can make Sherlock listen when I'm not there," he said.

"No, really," she said and he sobered.

"You like a lot of the things that I like, you're funny and clever, and care too often what people think of you. Because you listen without judgment, you laugh at your own jokes, and come to work with cat hair on your trousers and you change your make up to please yourself, not anyone else. You didn't need me for that, Molly Hooper; you had it in you all along. You tell Sherlock what's what and he actually listens to you. You always do what's _right_, even if you disagree with it. You're my best friend, Molly Hooper, and I love you for all those reasons." Her cheeks were pink from the cold, but he was sure she was blushing too. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and John was reminded that before he had come along, she didn't have any close friends. "You know what the number one reason is that you're my best friend?" he asked and she shook her head. "You made me listen to every single Barry Manilow song and I still hate his frigging guts." She burst out laughing then, tears rolling down her cheeks as she wiped her nose. He wrapped an arm around her as they walked down the street.

"That's only because you finally realized he's such a wonderful performer."

"Ha!" she gave him a light shove, grinning. They walked side-by-side, and Molly felt her hand holding something. She looked down between them and realized he was holding her hand, linking his fingers with hers. Neither said a word, suddenly realizing this was the first time they'd actually held hands. What a ridiculous thing, of course they had held hands before…hadn't they?

John and Molly had never held hands up until that moment. Perhaps because it was something couples did. Friends hug each other and tickle and pinch and tackle and link elbows, but more often than not, hand-holding doesn't come up. But now they were, and both noticed just how snugly they fit. Palm-to-palm, fingers laced together. It felt absolutely right. They took turns, sneaking glances down at their joined hands, then forward at the sidewalk ahead of them. John liked to see his hand in hers. Molly liked how his fingers fitted with hers. After a moment, Molly felt her confidence growing, and she swung their hands a little, a small bounce in her step. He found himself smiling at this. When he dropped her off at her flat, he kissed her goodnight, and if holding hands had felt absolutely right, then John kissing Molly was like Beethoven finishing "Ode to Joy".

"I still think Barry Manilow is an arse-hat." He said before he left and she laughed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes merry.

The next day, John and Sherlock were on a case, they were going to Scotland, and they'd be gone for at least a week. John promised to keep her in the loop and called or texted her every night. Greg knew she missed John, and teased her, leaving voicemail recordings of him singing Barry Manilow's 'Mandy' only he sang Molly's name instead.

"Greg," she said warningly, but she was laughing, and she saved the voicemail to play for John later. She missed him and found herself terribly bored at St. Barts, wishing the door of the lab would bang open and he and Sherlock would sweep in, gleaming with excitement about a case or experiment. Days passed slowly until finally, she received a text from John, they'd be home by late evening. Molly was in the lab, her shift was almost over and she was looking forward to it. It was Friday, which meant movie-night with John and Sherlock since they'd finally be home. She was packing up her bag when she heard music in the outer corridor. Frowning, she looked up from her papers. Mike Stamford must have decided to work late; he had a radio in his office and often left it on while he did his paperwork. Humming along, she turned back to her work, filing away the last of her papers, shutting lights of as she went. She cross the hall, still singing, to her office and set her charts down. Shrugging out of her lab coat, she turned –

And there was Sherlock.

"Good grief!" she gasped, startled. She took her coat from the hook, pulling it on. "When did you get back? Where is John?"

"Only just, he sent me to fetch you," she looked skeptical.

"And…you actually followed through?"

"Why is that so shocking?"

"You rarely do what John asks."

"Only pertaining to certain things, are you coming?"

"Yes,"

"Good. I'll see you back at the flat."

"What?!"

"It's Friday evening. Aren't you going to pick up some food?" She frowned.

"Yes…"

"You already know what to order, why do you need me there?" she heaved a sigh.

"I don't know, ok, yes, I'll see you back at yours."

"Ta," he waved, swishing out of the morgue.

Another hour later, arms full of take-away; she jimmied the door open with her hip, keys between her teeth. Upstairs she could hear pounding feet.

"Ow!"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, I told you- get him off the drapes!"

"What on earth-" she muttered.

"Evening dear," Mrs. Hudson called.

"Hello," she said, kicking the door shut behind her. "Going out Mrs. H?"

"Yes, see the boys don't make a mess will you? Floors were just re-done."

"I'll do my best," Molly smiled, pressing the old woman's cheek. "Have a good evening."

Up on the landing the voices were louder,

"It would look ridiculous,"

"It was in a movie,"

"Yes, and it was stupid."

"Your idea was much worse, flowers all over the floor, really John, think of the mess. Mrs. Hudson just redid the floors."

"Spelling out "Will You Marry Me" in sign-language with pickled hands is _not_ romantic, not to mention she wouldn't be able to read it since she doesn't _blood speak sign-language_!"

"Who?" Molly asked, standing in the open doorway. Both men froze, almost a perfect image of two children caught at the cookie jar.

"Um, it's-" John swiped a paper bag off the table, Sherlock kicked it down the hall, turning away to his violin. "Uh- nothing, just…"

"A case you're working on?" Molly asked.

"Uh-" John glanced at Sherlock. "Yes?"

"Ok…well, here's the food, so come eat,"

"Thanks, right, um, yes." John came over, pecked her on the cheek. "Thanks for getting food," he explained, "And, y'know, missed you."

"I missed you too," she said and kissed him properly this time. "Sherlock, I won't call you again, come eat, I'll put the kettle on and make you tea." Sherlock stepped over the couch, coffee table and then finally the kitchen chair.

"Thank you, Molly," and he smiled.

Now she stopped what she was doing. Turning to face them, she put a hand on her hip.

"Ok, what are you two up to?"

"What?"

"Well John?" Sherlock asked.

"I just brought food, you both just got home from a week-long case and neither of you are eating," Molly said, hands across her chest. "What. Did you. Do?" Sherlock gave John a look, who only frowned in response. Sherlock gave him a penetrating stare, nodding his head toward Molly.

"Now?!" John asked. "No, not- it has to-" he glanced at Molly. "You don't do that sort of thing just- out of the blue-"

"It's always out of the blue, that's why women cry when you do it,"

"Do you two want to be alone?!" Molly asked, exasperated. She turned back to the food. "Honestly, the pair of you-" Sherlock and John went on muttering quietly between the two of them as she spoke. "-you're a pair of boys, you can't even discuss something without bickering, and Sherlock Mrs. Hudson said you're not to make a mess just yet, the floors are all new and-" she turned just then, her hands full of a plate of food to see-

"Toby?" John looked at the cat hanging from the drapes. "You brought Toby over?" she laughed. "Whatever for?"

"Well…you spend the weekends here, why shouldn't he?" John asked with a shrug.

"He'll bother you at night," Molly warned. "But as long as Sherlock promises not to perform any experiments on him, I'm happy to see him," she smiled at the cat as she made her way over to the sofa. "Is that why Sherlock came to meet me at St. Barts? So I wouldn't see you sneaking Toby in?" the two men glanced at each other.

"Yeah, course," John laughed.

The evening was spent as Friday nights usually went, up until Sherlock leapt from his chair. His mobile beeping in his pocket.  
"What's he on about?" Molly asked, mouth-full of food.

"I dunno. Better not be another case, I'm beat," he speared a piece of her naan,

"Oy! That's my favorite part,"

"Mm, sorry, here, take a bit of mine," he tore off a piece, tossing it back at her plate. Sherlock reappeared, dressed.

"Anything wrong?" Molly asked.

"Case, come along John,"

"No- no, I just got in!"

"Crime stops for no one,"

"It's 'Time stops for-' ugh…never mind," John got to his feet, looking around for a place to set his food.

"Here," Molly took it from him, standing as well. "Go on, go save London, and when you get back I'll have dessert ready."

"Sherlock's sort of…exploded the oven, can't bake anything," he said.

"Well I can still make something on the stove," she said. "Go ahead, don't worry about the mess. I've got Toby here besides and Mrs. Hudson will be back soon. We'll have a girl's night."  
"Thanks Molls, you're the best,"

"John!" Sherlock bellowed.  
"Bye," a quick kiss on the cheek and he was off, grabbing his jacket and hurrying after a giddy Sherlock. Two cases in one week? Perish the thought!

Molly busied herself cleaning up the kitchen. When Mrs. Hudson came home she borrowed a few ingredients and made a microwave cake for herself. She'd make more when the boys came home, or at least one for John. Depending on the case Sherlock wouldn't eat until he solved it.

**Meanwhile, across London**

"Sherlock, this is not how I wanted the evening to go, I'm supposed to be spending it with Molly,"

"You will John," Sherlock said, holding up the police tape.

"I just got back, all I want is to sit on the couch, watch stupid movies and eat my dinner!" he complained.

"And miss this?" Sherlock asked incredulously, sweeping an arm out to the scene before them. Anderson and Donovan were bickering with some underling officer who had not put on the special protective booties. Lestrade studying the body, blood everywhere, there was an ambulance, and two police cars, their lights flashing.

"Yeah, shame, hate to be inside on a night like this," he grumbled.

"I'm doing you a favor," Sherlock said, wriggling his hands into a pair of latex gloves. John took another set, peering at the corpse.

"How?"

"Giving you a chance to put your thoughts back together from that near-collision of awkward soppy garbage you muddled through back home."

"Oh, yeah, thanks, by the way, for practically blowing the whole thing before I could even-"

"Do you two need a moment?" Lestrade asked, apparently he had plans for the evening as well.

"No, sorry," John mumbled.

They spent most of the night following a trail. Relatively simple case, but John swore Sherlock only took it to piss him off. It was good to know that it would be taken care of by morning at any rate. An hour before dawn Lestrade thanked them for their time and coming in on short notice and John hailed a cab back to Baker Street. Just outside the front door, Sherlock hung back.

"Aren't you coming in?"

"I'm going for a walk around the block," Sherlock announced. John frowned.

"Yeah…ok, why? It's five in the morning,"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"It's five in the morning, Sherlock, I've been up all night, I've had half a dinner and no tea or coffee, yes."

"I'm buying you time. I expect you to have accomplished what you intended to do last night by the time I come back," and he started down the street.

The sun was warm on her face when Molly blinked sleepily. She'd fallen asleep on the couch, Toby curled up on her belly. He'd jumped off at a noise near the front of the flat. What was that? Footsteps. Heavy and tired. The boys must be back. She ought to get up and make breakfast. John would be hungry at the very least. She yawned hugely, stretching herself out the length of the couch with a groan. She rolled onto her belly, head in the crook of her arm, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. Someone was sitting on the coffee table. With a smile, she reached out, grasping the hand nearest to her. He caught her wrist, turning her palm to face him. Still not quite awake, she didn't piece together what he was doing until she felt a smooth metal band slide down her wring finger. It was cold and heavy. Her fingers felt what was on her finger, a ring obviously, and a big one at that.

"John Watson," she murmured, now quite awake. "What have you put on my finger?"

"I wanted to give it to you last night but I mucked it up," he said. She sat up now, their knees touching. "Sherlock told me to come up now and I'll be hanged if he tells me how to go about proposing to the woman I love." He took a breath now. "But will you? Molly Hooper, plain and pretty, the one who matters to me, Molly will you marry me?"

"Please say yes before it gets any worse and he starts quoting lyrics," Sherlock said from the doorway. Molly laughed, kissing John before he had a chance to reply to Sherlock. He let them have their moment and kiss, well, multiple kisses, good grief, Sherlock didn't know whether to leave the room or hose them down. He was sure John would say they weren't being that obnoxious. After a moment Molly jumped to her feet, hugging Sherlock.

"Congratulations," he said, and he meant it. "I suppose though, you will want to start looking for other accommodations… which means I am out a flat mate. Mycroft won't be happy about that-" John and Molly exchanged looks, laughing on the inside.

"Sherlock-"

"He'll assume I'm back to old habits, I think we all know what I mean, and he'll continually have my flat searched because he doesn't trust me-"

"_Your_ flat?"

"And you two will probably find some place in the country to raise fat, happy babies and I'll have no choice but to say-"

"Sherlock!" John and Molly both said.

"I had thought Molly and I could stay here with you, she and I can have my room, and between the three of us I am sure we can manage the rent, maybe even fix the place up a little," John said. Sherlock frowned.

"Fix up how?"

"The bullet holes, for one," Molly said, heading to the fridge for the eggs and juice.

"You leave that wall alone," Sherlock said. "It's _my_ wall."

"_Our_ wall," John said, getting down the coffee tin. Molly was heating up the pan, fairly wriggling with glee. She crossed the kitchen, touching John's hand in passing. "Honestly, Mrs. Hudson has been upset about that wall ever since you plugged it,"

"What about the smiley face?" John asked.

"No I don't mind that," Molly said

"Really? Ugh," John rolled his eyes. "Lesser of two evils I suppose."

"Oh, hush," she murmured, pressing another kiss to his mouth.

"Are you two going to be like this all the time?" Sherlock asked, annoyed. Their display of affection would clearly mean a delay in his breakfast.

"I hope so," John shrugged. Sherlock only groaned, rolling his eyes. He went off to his corner, taking up his violin.

"Call me when breakfast is ready," he said and turned back to the rising sun. Facing the windows, they couldn't see him smiling to himself, watching their reflection in the glass as they danced back and forth, teasing and giggling and kissing. He'd be lost without his blogger and pathologist. It is funny how people fill up the empty parts of our lives we didn't know needed filling. Sherlock often said sentiment helped no one. He'd been told on numerous occasions he had no heart. A tiny voice in the back of his mind palace seemed to tease him: _"We both know that's not quite true." _Perhaps Sherlock had one all along, and it had only been missing a couple pieces.


End file.
